The world is quiet here
by the drowsy poet
Summary: Teenlock AU. In an effort to make people look into each other's eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly 167 words, per day. Johnlock. Inspired by a post on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just something I made. Inspired by a post on Tumblr which I will put a link to on my profile, if any of you actually care. The italicised bit is an extract from that, so this is my disclaimer ish thing. I don't own Sherlock either. Weh.**

* * *

_In an effort to get people to look  
into each other's eyes more,  
and also to appease the mutes,  
the government has decided  
to allot each person exactly one hundred  
and sixty-seven words, per day._

* * *

When it happens, John is 15, and Sherlock is 6 months his junior. Despite this, however, the latter has an intellect almost double the other boy's. Yet they are equal, in their own way. At this point they aren't sure exactly what that means.

What they are.

(What they are doing)

They are caught in the blissful state of not-knowing, of fingers that don't beg to be cradled by another when the winter air grows crisp and cold.

(They don't have long.)

The government announces it one day, and if it's out of the blue then no one complains. Not in spoken word, at least, for that is almost impossible nowadays.

It's a Tuesday. Sherlock finds out at precisely 6:03 am (5 hours and 23 minutes after it is announced) from an extremely agitated Mycroft, and he goes back to sleep without another word. 42 minutes later he hears his alarm clock ring. He puts on his white school shirt and tie and runs a hand through hair that won't lie straight if he begged it to.

It's not on the radio: the radio has stopped. The television consists of merely pictures and emboldened text, the occasional phrase thrown about in poorly concealed panicked voices. Never the same person.

He flicks the switch of the kettle. Waits. Steam rises into the air and paints the kitchen surfaces in a dewy coating of water droplets. It is 7:55. His bus leaves at 8, 5 minutes from now. Skipping it seems like the cleverest option.

He tries not to remember he's forgotten to call John.

John couldn't speak to him, and he couldn't speak back. They would breathe their heavy rasps down the line and leave it at that, the single knowing that they are there and they are together their only comfort.

It's a wonder to think they're oblivious as of yet.

John finds out half an hour later. He would have found out before this, but his dad isn't responding to the usual slap-in-the-face-and-wake-up, and his mother tends to leave for work early on the days when his father's intoxication grows out of hand. It's no use even speculating as to where Harry is.

He sees it on the headline of The Times in a newsagent's window. He forgets the exact words: he is shocked, and he is fighting the urge to call his friend and use them all up before the day is out.

He, along with 6 billion others, is rendered partially mute.

* * *

**A/N: Cue some very quiet romance, in much longer chapters, hopefully. Cause this is Johnlock fo' sho'. Will be continuing as soon as possible. And ****_maybe_**** even sooner than that if I get some encouraging reviews? Yeah?**

**ok bye**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _The BBC like italicised text._ The owner of the tumblr post likes underlining. **I like things in bold. **

**There is a difference.**

* * *

_When the phone rings, I put it to my ear _  
_without saying hello. In the restaurant_  
_I point at chicken noodle soup._  
_I am adjusting to the new way._

* * *

The surrounding world crashes beneath their shoulders. It has been just a few hours, in consciousness, yet the new way has wracked the earth with a tsunami of quiet sobbing, of held in shouts and of painful silences.

It has been so long without sound in thought: so little in reality.

Those who work with their voices are forced out of jobs, and children in schools everywhere sink into a state of melancholy that only the odd spoken word can cure. Sometimes they forget, not used to the new regime. They cry out to their friend: embarrassed as the misplaced call rings out in the quiet.

They have but a score few left.

There should surely be riots, but with no one to plan and no one brave enough to use up their precious few syllables, there is just a cold emptiness left where once there was passion.

Crude messages scribed in spray paint appear on the walls of government offices. The authorities close off the area with barbed fences and the hassle dies down, after a while. People continue to write. Their message is seen everywhere: without written words they are nothing.

In some vague effort to bring sound back, music fills the streets. Sonatas of violins and cellos and instruments people have never before seen appear suddenly, as though my magic. For the alternative there is the heavy bass pounding of electronica, for the laid back the steady thrum of acoustic guitar. Each person is defined by what they listen to and others are shunned by their rivals; held prisoner in muted groups of similar style.

The world has changed in a few short moments, and no one was there to stop it.

* * *

Sherlock has nothing. Without his sharp deductions and witty repertoire he is just "_freak," _he is just the boy with a lot of brain and a lack of friends. He is forced into the backdrop, fading into the walls of the school corridors like he was never even there.

John attempts to reconcile some emotion within the once thriving boy, but it seems there is no hope left. He stays with him despite the empty eyes. When there is nothing to say (nothing he_ can_ say, in a physical sense) he settles with gentle smiling and eye contact so intense it hurts.

They form a secret language that uses only their eyes, and later, when they are both at home, they call each other up to finish with the words that they have spared from the previous day. Sherlock learns, rather much to his surprise, that this isn't so bad. He stays quiet so as to bathe in the surreal beauty of his friend's vocal expression: savouring each syllable as though it is gold.

(For one so clever, he really is an idiot.)

John does the same. They take it in turns to speak: amazed at how something so precious was taken so much for granted a time that seems long ago, but was, realistically, only a few months back.

Somewhere in the midst of this dream, Sherlock becomes used to the new way. He nods at John as they greet, holding back the '_hello,_' and the '_I've missed you_.'

(Though with the last one he would've held back anyway.)

He discovers that it is also a new way to ignore Mycroft. The perfect excuse: _'I've used them all up'_ bottled into a faux – apologetic cock of the head, a satisfied smirk and a smug raising of eyebrow.

It is not so bad in the extreme.

(He misses the sound of John's voice inside of him.)

* * *

It has been a week, and Sherlock has not spoken a word to anyone. The people around him silently muse where he is spending them, (_who he's spending them on_) and why he's being so careless with these precious gifts that come in such little amounts. They scorn as he gestures to his lips: the internationally recognised sign of: _'I've run out._' He internally smirks. Feels the words he could so easily say lingering at the back of his throat.

They feel pleasantly light.

He continues not speaking to anyone, and it is better than good. Anyone (everyone) is dull, achingly so.

(But, Sherlock has realised, John Watson is certainly not _anyone.)_

* * *

They are on the phone, but they do not speak.

It is a Thursday. John is certain that miracles can only ever occur on Thursdays. Be it the near seconds that tick away to the first few seconds of Friday, be it but a mere hour after Wednesday's inky midnight, John is certain. Miracles happen on Thursdays, he muses, and today is such a day.

Sherlock doesn't believe in miracles. He believes that good things can happen, and that bad things can happen, and sometimes they can get mixed up. But _miracles?_ Only for the delusional.

John is as close to a miracle as he can get, and, though he doesn't realise it at the moment, that is as close as he will ever be.

"Sherlock?"

The sound echoes unnaturally through the tinny speakers of the darker boy's phone. John has used 45 words today, and this is another.

(And it is for _him.)_

He has 121 to use.

Sherlock has the original 167. He doesn't speak for anyone.

"I'm here."

John isn't anyone. He is someone and he is something and he is anything, and most of all, he is everything_._

"Why don't you speak anymore?"

That is 5. He has 116 left. Words can dissipate as quickly as smoke in the winter air.

_I save them for you. _

"Nothing to say."

"You're speaking now, aren't you?" He is almost accusing, and Sherlock wonders yet again what he thinks. Deduction across telephone wires is not nearly as effective, yet whatever John is thinking won't be the truth. It _can't_ possibly be the truth, because not even Sherlock knows that yet.

(He is closer than ever)

"Things to say."

John chuckles. Sherlock imagines his eyes lighting up, and smiles into his hand.

He sighs. "...I wish it wasn't like this anymore, Sherlock. This... this word limit. It's exhausting." He cuts off, then: "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

There is a silence, now, and it is painfully different from the others. The unsaid words that for once _can_ be said hang like heavy clouds in the air of their separate bedrooms. The taste is bitter. It lingers on Sherlock's tongue.

They breathe down the phone.

"It's late," John says after a few minutes. "We should sleep."

"Do we have to?"

_A pause._

"Yes."

"Okay."

They don't. Sherlock is scared that the little red button might hold more power than its worth, and all John can think of is how many words he has to spare: how they can be spent so much better. They stay caught on the line: the previous stilted conversation breeding and festering and growing like the disease it surely is.

"Do you think things have changed, John?"

"Undoubtedly."

"I miss you."

He chuckles again. "You've said."

"I thought it was worth repeating," he replies, so quickly that it's as though the old boy has returned, banishing this new and melancholy creature back to the place it so deserves.

"I -"

He stops.

"You what?"

_Love you._ "Miss you."

"Again."

"Yes."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night."

They hang up. The silence that he has become so accustomed to lately rings loud in John's ears for the rest of the night.

He is deafened by the weight of all that has not been said.

* * *

**A/N: And here we end Chapter 2. A little longer, no? I'm quite pleased with it. Just a reminder that all reviewers are gifted with free chocolate pudding for the rest of eternity. No lie.**

**side note: to the anonymous reviewer** **'Aleurai' - YES YES YES. That sounds fantastic! GIFTS FOR YOUR FAMILY! YES!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here I am, depressed and miserable from the horrors of Les Mis. My poor heart, ripped out like that. It shouldn't be allowed. I have updated this for Paula, because I made her watch Sherlock and now she is dead. Sorry, bby. Hope you're managing.**

* * *

_Late at night, I call my long distance lover,_  
_proudly say I only use fifty nine today._  
_I saved the rest for you._

* * *

A month later, and they seem, to an outsider, to be as oblivious as they were before. Before, when they were so young but _not,_ because in reality they were really just the same as they are now.

Confused, apprehensive, unsure.

(They are, more than ever. But now? What's different about now?)

(Now they know _why.)_

* * *

John plans it out in a pocket book.

The exactness of the words; when he'd pause; when he'd stop to take a breath and simultaneously look into the other boy's eyes, and maybe then he wouldn't have to finish because they'd kiss and the words could speak for themselves.

(He tries to remind himself of the overriding word _maybe_, because it's only that, only _maybe_ - isn't it? - it can never be anything more than _maybe.) _

He makes a tally of the words it would take.

In the end, he reaches almost 1000. He could have more, if he tried. He could search through the whole of the Oxford Dictionary and find not a word too many, he could find the translations and the variations, he could compose sonnets rivalling those of even Shakespeare, and it still could never be enough.

The tally chart is burned, the sentences so perfectly and so precisely formed greeting the fire like a long lost friend. Thoughts of _maybemaybemaybe_ dance around his brain where once there was conscious thought.

John extinguishes the flame with his fingers, and though the pain sears through his flesh he does not let go.

(He relishes the burn.)

* * *

What does Sherlock do, you ask?

What Sherlock always does, surely.

He can't understand it. He agonises over numbers and counts the seconds it takes for John to reply to a text, or the slight pause before responding across the phone. He grabs wildly at useless figures in a feeble attempt to place an equation on what he feels, and when he can't - when he loses all sense of sanity - he starts to break.

He anagrams John's name and multiplies their ages and calculates the distance between their individual homes.

He is breaking - _breaking_ - crumbling to dust, burning up in a pit of the hottest lava.

He calls John and hangs up before the first ring, then calls him again and only waits until the third.

And, when John calls him back, the shorter boy finds himself terrified, because "_I'm going to die_," and the press of a button. And then Sherlock picks up the phone when John is half way to his house and tells him that he's _fine,_ he was working himself up and John shouldn't worry, but John comes anyway and they lie next to one another on the floorboards and imagine what they would say if it were possible.

In the end, they are left with _"It's going to be okay,"_ and the inevitable _"I miss you,"_ when really what they mean is _"no, it's not _fucking_ okay anymore,"_ and, the inevitably unspoken: _"I love you."_

It takes them a month, but finally they decide that something has to happen before they finally break.

And so, our story begins.

* * *

The day before it happens, Sherlock knocks on John's door. And it's funny, really, because all they do is talk on the phone nowadays, speaking of saved words and missing each other.

"John," Sherlock croaks, his vocal chords unused to being forced to work this early in the morning. He is wearing a scarf that is so blue it hurts John's eyes, and when he breathes, the boy notices, smoke fills the winter air.

He has become more adept in the science of deduction recently.

"Hi, Sherlock," he says. They do not speak for another five minutes, for Sherlock enters and John makes tea and they agonise over what they could say, over what could happen from what they could say, over the world Before everything.

When they are sat, Sherlock speaks.

"We're going away."

John gulps.

"You and Mycroft?" He questions, and forces down the lump growing in his throat. This is not what should be happening. He is 15, and he should be shouting down football pitches and talking about girls and not worrying over limits or ridiculous arses of boys with cheekbones sculpted by Greek Gods.

"No. Not Mycroft. You and I. We're going to go to Cornwall, or somewhere equally far away from here, and we're not going to worry about anything and when we come back we can smile and things will be okay," he says far too quickly, and then: "It defies all logic, and that's why we're doing it."

_A silence._

"When?"

He does not question it. He does not wonder if his best friend has gone mad, or what his mother will say, or think about GCSEs or football teams or how he's going to watch Doctor Who.

"Whenever. Tomorrow, or next month. Does it matter?"

"Let's go tomorrow."

"Okay."

And that, it seems, is that.

* * *

**Reviewing** **means Johnlock in Series 3.**


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